


The Spoils of War

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [13]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Brothers, Crossover, Gen, Guns, Memories, Plans For The Future, Secrets, Separated Twins, Spies & Secret Agents, Starting Over, Switzerland, Twins, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 17:02:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.William and Kirill are in Geneva, retrieving some family mementos, and cleaning out Kirill's haul of ill-gotten gains.Takes place in late August 2011.





	The Spoils of War

They were wearing their most expensive suits and finest Italian leather shoes, but the elegant blonde behind the front desk wasn't at _all_ impressed. She looked them over from head to toe, scrunched her pert nose very slightly, gave them an inauthentic smile, then in perfect but accented English said, "Good afternoon, gentlemen, and welcome to the Geneva Safeport. How may I be of assistance today?"

Never one to waste his time on niceties he didn't mean, Kirill got straight to the point. "I have an appointment for three o'clock."

As he spoke, the tasteful timepiece on the wall let out a trio of chimes.

"Account number?" the woman enquired. No smile, no please, no thank you, no if-you-wouldn't-mind.

"Two nine zero six, five zero one five, three eight six one, seven two four nine, four four six two," was Kirill's curtly-delivered response.

William emulated their host and tried to look unimpressed. He knew he had a good memory, but nowhere near as good as his twin's. There was no way in hell he would ever remember a string of numbers that long.

The woman—Mademoiselle de Chambéry according to the badge on her coat—jotted the numbers down on a pad, then turned away to punch them into a nearby computer. She turned back twenty seconds later, sporting a slightly warmer smile.

Kirill had obviously passed the first test.

"Thank you, sir," the lovely but cold mademoiselle declared. "Please go through the door on the left, one of our representatives will meet you at the identity verification point." She handed Kirill a visitor's pass, which he fastened to the front of his coat. Then she turned her attention to William, standing a couple of feet behind. "You may accompany the account holder as his guest, or if you would prefer, you may wait in our customer reception lounge."

"He comes with me," Kirill replied before William could even open his mouth.

She handed over another pass. "Enjoy your visit," she said.

******************** 

As promised, another employee was waiting for them at the other side of the door. A man this time, middle-aged, tall and lean with a full head of silver-shot hair, smartly-dressed in a three-piece suit, but just as smug as his younger colleague and just as bereft of humour and warmth.

William could see a hallway behind him, sterile and bare, spotlessly clean, carpeted and brightly lit, with several doors along the left wall.

The man snuck a glance at his phone, looked from one guest to the other, frowned and gave them a tight-lipped smile. "Good afternoon, sirs," he began in an accent with _Schweizerdeutsch_ tones. "You will forgive me for having to ask, but which one of you is the account owner?"

"That would be me," Kirill said, stepping forward again.

The man nodded and moved aside, revealing a waist-level recess in the wall.

Peering over his brother's shoulder, William could see the recess contained a touch-sensitive LED panel, similar to what the Company used for biometric identity validation.

The man made to speak again.

"I know the procedure," Kirill advised, moving forward to place his right hand flat on the screen with his fingers slightly spread. A blue light behind the panel scanned the hand from top to bottom, then bottom to top, then left to right, then right to left.

As they waited for the results, William took a moment to wonder what the standard procedure was for people who failed this stage of the checks. Did a trapdoor open under their feet to drop them into a snake-filled cell? Did guns (Sig Sauers, of course) pop out of the ceilings and walls to riddle their bodies full of holes? Did a squad of muscular hitmen burst out of a nearby room to bundle the trespassers into a van, never to be heard from again? Or did the man simply ask you to leave and never darken the Safeport's doorstep again?

Sadly, the answers to his various questions were destined to go unrevealed. The plate turned green and quietly bonged, indicating the system behind it liked the cut of his brother's jib, or at the very least, of his brother's right hand.

The man smiled, turned to gesture along the hall and gave them another officious nod. "Please proceed to reception room five near the end of the hall, your storage unit will be brought to you shortly."

******************** 

To William's surprise, reception room five was just as stark and uninviting as the depressingly sterile hallway outside. It was smaller than his office at work, but windowless, and if such a thing was possible, even more bereft of charm. The floor was concrete (but polished and smooth), the walls were a sickly shade of cream and apart from the light, there were no fixtures or fittings to speak of—only a dark grey granite counter running along the wall on the right.

He'd never been to the Safeport before, so hadn't quite known what to expect, but he'd expected something better than _this_. Where was the comfort and hospitality for which _Les Genevois_ were renowned?

At least the room was air-conditioned, which meant that, for the duration of their visit, they wouldn't have to endure the city's painfully humid, late summer heat.

"Where does that go?" he said to his twin, pointing at a panelled door on the left.

"Into the secure part of the building where they keep all of the storage units."

"Do we go through it?"

Kirill shook his head. "The storage unit comes to us," he explained, then pointed at a light on the wall. "When the light turns to green, it means the unit has been delivered, and the access door can be opened."

"Seems like a difficult way to do it. Wouldn't it be more efficient to let us walk right up to the unit, take out the stuff we need and leave?"

"This is the Geneva Safeport, Viko, not your local Units R Us. You need to stop thinking like a married father of two from McLean, and think like an international art thief instead."

William tutted and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, security so tight it makes a frog's ass look like a sieve in comparison."

"There is more to the Geneva Safeport than a good security system, _brat_. Security is extremely important, but privacy and confidentiality are just as highly prized. The owners don't want us to know who their other customers are, and no customer, including me, wants to see other people or be seen while they are in the building."

"So instead of letting us go to the mountain, they put us in a reception room, and bring the mountain to us instead?"

"Exactly."

"I guess that's also why you had to make an appointment in advance. They don't want customers turning up out of the blue when they might not have a reception room available for them."

"Customers who can afford a whole room instead of just a standalone unit go in a more private entrance at the other side of the building, so they can turn up whenever they want. It is only the budget-conscious peons like me who have to call before they arrive."

It took William a couple of seconds to realize his brother wasn't joking. Only here, in the fifth most expensive place to live in the world, could what Kirill had paid to the Safeport in fees classify him as budget-conscious. "How long do we have the room for?" he asked.

"I have always been and gone in less than ten minutes, so I don't know for sure, but I believe a standard appointment gives us an hour."

"So I probably shouldn't call the front desk to ask blondie to bring us some coffee and cakes?"

"We finished lunch an hour ago, _brat_ ," Kirill said in a weary voice. "You don't need any coffee or cakes. And they would only charge me for whatever you used."

William snorted. "They don't do anything for free around here, huh?"

"You don't make money by doing things for people for free, so not if they can help it, no."

Something heavy thudded and clanked on the other side of the door. A few seconds later, the light on the wall flickered then changed from red to green.

Kirill strode across to the door, turned the handle and pulled it open, revealing a metal cabinet secured with a number pad lock.

William could see it didn't have the weight and bulk of a proper safe, but wasn't as flimsy as an office filing cupboard, either. It reminded him of the Guard-It locker he kept out in the garden shed—the one he used to store his ammo and hunting rifles—right down to the location, colour and shape of the pad.

"I assume you remember the code," the older brother drily said, "or it's gonna be a really short trip."

Kirill gave him a withering glare. "Of course I remember the code," he sniped, extending a finger to punch in another lengthy sequence of numbers.

As he entered the final digit, the lock on the panel hummed and snicked.

Kirill slid his fingers under the handle, then paused, sighed, and turned to give him a slightly-pained look. "Viko, before I open this storage locker, I need you to promise not to judge me too harshly."

"Kir, it's a cupboard full of personal belongings and family mementos. What the hell am I gonna judge?"

"There are other items in here as well," Kirill solemnly revealed. "Items no decent, normal person should have."

That still wasn't a massive concern—they both worked for the CIA, so they weren't always decent, normal people. Decent, normal people didn't hang millionaires on their boss's orders, or later shoot that boss in the head...

"You mean the painting you stole from the journalist guy as part of your scheme to make him leave town?" William flapped a dismissive hand. "I know about that, and you've already decided you're gonna return it, so what's the big deal?"

His brother let out another sigh, then looked at his toes and squirmed. "Viko, now we are here, you should probably know, I have not been entirely honest with you about the contents of this cupboard."

Christ on a fucking crutch. This was the _last_ thing William wanted to hear. "Jesus, _bratishka_ ," he complained. "We talked about this last year, back when you started your job at HQ. I thought we agreed we weren't gonna lie to each other?"

"We did."

"But you went ahead and lied to me anyway?"

Kirill attempted a sheepish smile. "I prefer to think of it as temporarily hiding things from you. Which is not really the same as lying."

"Right," William sarcastically said. "And it's not really adultery if she only blows you." He glared at his brother again, resisting the urge to reach out and smack the Russian upside the head. "We're gonna talk about this later, okay? Come to an _absolutely crystal clear_ understanding of what we both mean when we say we're not gonna lie to each other. You hear me?"

For once, his brother chose the sensible route and gave him an obedient nod.

William pushed his annoyance aside. He didn't have time to lose his cool; he apparently had a more important problem to deal with. "So if I understand you correctly, you're telling me there's something in this storage cupboard more troublesome than a stolen painting?"

"There is, yes."

William looked the cabinet over. "Well, it's not big enough to hold a dead body, and you already told me you're not a serial killer, so I'm guessing that means you don't have someone's head and hands in a set of pickle jars, either."

"No pickled heads or hands, I promise. No body parts at all, for that matter."

"Let's get on with it, then. Whatever you've got hidden in there that's worse than a stolen painting, I won't know how I feel about it until I actually see what it is."

Kirill turned back to the unit; the door swung open with a squeak.

From where he was standing, William couldn't see much of what the cupboard contained—the swing-hinge door was blocking his view. As he made to move closer in, Kirill held up a warning hand. "Let me do this part on my own. I want to empty it in a very specific way."

"Sure, no problem," William agreed, retreating to his original spot. "Take all the time you need. Or at least, as much time as your budget-conscious appointment gives you."

Kirill reached up to pull a metal attaché case from a shelf at the top of the unit. He walked across to the counter with it, laid it down, rotated the dials on each side of the handle until they displayed the proper code, then pressed the buttons to open the lid.

William sucked in his breath as he saw what the case contained.

Money.

Lots and lots and _lots_ of money.

Mostly one hundred dollar bills and yellow, two hundred euro notes, but also a handful of pounds, rand, francs and yen. He tried not to notice that some of the bills were slightly singed around the edges or artfully spattered in blood...

He counted the bundles in the top layer, checked the dimensions of the case and quickly did the sums in his head. "You must have half a million dollars in here," he said, hoping he didn't sound as shocked as he felt.

Kirill tilted his hand back and forth in a no-yes-no gesture. "Some of the notes in the packs underneath are smaller denominations. I counted it all before I stashed it away, and I think the total was closer to four." Not quite enough to retire on, but more than enough to cover a lifetime of bills.

But William had known the money was here—it was one of the storage unit's secrets Kirill hadn't kept to himself—and they'd already made another decision. "We take this to Tom at the Consulate station," he gently reminded his twin. "He'll handle it all for us from there."

Kirill's response was a dutiful sigh and a slightly reluctant nod.

"You're doing the right thing," William added, sensing his brother was having second thoughts. "Not just in giving the money up, but also in who you're giving it up _for_." Specifically, the wives and children of Eric Schroeder and Daniel Manning—the two men Kirill had killed in Berlin almost two years ago.

Feeling wistful, William looked at the haul again. They were doing the right thing—of that he was sure—but it seemed a pity to give it _all_ away. He grabbed four bundles of dollars from the top, stuffed two into his jacket pockets, handed the other two to his brother, then slammed the case shut and slid it to the right end of the counter.

Kirill made an offended sound. "I thought I had to give it all up."

William shrugged. "Guess you're not the only one here who knows how to lie. It's not like Tom's gonna know any better. And it's not like we can do anything _really_ outrageous with twenty thousand dollars each."

Kirill snorted and raised his brows, but otherwise kept his opinions to himself.

"So what's next?" William asked.

This time, instead of reaching up, Kirill squatted to rummage around on a lower shelf.

William was pleased to see that, for once, the movement caused his brother no pain. Maybe the moisture in the air was good for the damaged bones...

Kirill was back at the counter a few seconds later, carrying a large shopping bag emblazoned with a familiar name.

"When the fuck did you ever go shopping at Harrods?" William demanded to know. "Unless they have a weapons department in the basement nobody ever told me about?"

"I am quite fond of their Earl Grey tea," Kirill said in a huffy tone.

"Tea, _bratishka_? _Really_? You turning into Captain Picard?"

The huffy tone morphed into a grin. "I may also have stopped in the kitchenware department to purchase a Wusthof oyster knife."

That didn't help. "What the fuck do you use an oyster knife for? And don't say to open oysters, cus I know you can't stand the things."

"Have you ever seen an oyster knife, _brat_?"

"It's not one of my must-have kitchen appliances, no." He doubted it was on his wife's list, either. Unless she needed an oyster knife to operate a Miele grill.

"You should look at one the next time you go to Williams-Sonoma. They are short, strong and _extremely_ sharp, which makes them the perfect tool for certain... assignments."

William held up a protesting hand. "I don't wanna know. And for the record, I _hate_ going to Williams-Sonoma. I don't _go_ there so much as get dragged along against my will. An hour of looking at napkin rings and table runners, and I'm ready to join Al-Qaeda."

Kirill grinned again and lifted the bag up onto the counter. One by one, five items came out and were carefully laid on the granite shelf.

The first was a neat bundle of passports, secured by an elastic band.

William picked the bundle up, ripped off the band and checked the country names on the covers. Five in all, from Canada, Germany, New Zealand, Great Britain and the United States—all countries in the top ten of the passport usability list. They were fakes, of course, but so well-made he doubted most US border agents would be able to tell they weren't real.

Which meant they probably hadn't come from a black-market dealer.

"You got these from work," William declared.

"During the time I worked for the SVR, yes. Their documents team is one of the best."

"Can't believe they let you keep them after you left. The Company keeps really close tabs on who it gives its counterfeit documents to. You try to hold onto one when you leave, you'll have SEAL Team Six waiting for you at the main gate."

"The jobs I used them for were all strictly off the books, so only a handful of people at Yasenevo even knew I had them. Plus, my departure was _extremely_ abrupt."

William thumbed through the German passport, marvelling at the collection of stamps. Argentina, Kenya, Peru, Bahrain, Vietnam, and Jesus, was that a mark for _Iran_? He snorted as he noticed the name. "Alexander Adler? That was really the best you could do?" he asked, his language skills reminding him that Adler meant 'eagle' in German just as Orlov did in Russian. And Alexander had been their father's name.

Kirill's response was a nonchalant shrug. "You know how it is, Viko. Sometimes the better lie is the one closest to the truth."

William had no answer for that. They had both made successful careers out of secrets and half-hidden truths. They both knew there was no such thing as a better lie.

He flicked through the other four books, then threw two of them to the right end of the counter to sit with the case full of cash. "The British one expired last year and you have a real American one now, so those two go to the station to be securely destroyed."

"Will you show them to Tom?"

"No point. He'd only ask a whole bunch of questions I don't wanna answer, and they're both pretty old, so there's nothing in them the anti-counterfeit guys would want to see. I'll take a side trip down to the records room in the basement, drop them in the document zapper."

"What about those?" Kirill asked, pointing to the trio of passports William still had in his hands.

William blew out a heavy sigh. "We _should_ destroy these ones as well," was his by-the-book reply. "But they all have at least five years left on them, so it seems a shame to throw them away."

Especially as he could also use them.

He thought on the question for a few seconds, then threw the passports to the left end of the counter. "Fuck it, let's keep them with us for now. We can always destroy them later as well if we decide we're never gonna need them."

The passports reviewed, Kirill grabbed another item—a black, velvet, drawstring bag. "Uncut diamonds," the Russian announced as he passed the bag over.

William pulled the drawstring open and peered inside, jiggling the contents around. He'd never seen unprocessed gemstones before. Was this really what they looked like? "I'll take your word for it," he advised in a dubious tone. "If I didn't know better, I'd think these were chunks of safety glass or pebbles you'd picked up on a beach."

"I thought the same thing when I received them. I took them to a jeweller on the Rue du Rhone before I added them to my stash, he assured me they were genuine stones."

William pulled the drawstring shut, then threw the bag on top of the case. "They're going to the station as well."

"We cannot keep them?" Kirill proposed. "They are not monetary instruments, and they have not been set into jewellery yet, so we _should_ be allowed to take them home without incurring import fees."

William shook his head. "If they were cut, yeah, but uncut diamonds are a serious no-no. You _can_ import them, but I've heard the paperwork is a nightmare. You don't have the documents to prove they didn't come from one of the conflict zones, so they'll be _way_ more hassle than they're worth."

"Probably better to give them to Tom," Kirill philosophically said. "We Orlovs have never had much luck with diamonds."

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"When you and Michelle were living in Moscow, did you ever visit the Kremlin Armoury to look at the Diamond Fund?"

The name rang a bell. "We did, yeah."

"One of the items in the collection is the Imperial Sceptre, made for Catherine the Great. The diamond set in the head of the staff bears our family name."

William seized the opportunity to have some fun at his brother's expense. "Why the fuck would Catherine the Great call a gemstone the _Cooper_ Diamond?"

Kirill gave him a thoroughly filthy stare. "The Orlov Diamond, _brat_. Named after Count Grigory Orlov, who gave it to Catherine as a lover's gift."

"Gift like that, she must have been a _hell_ of a lay."

"I am quite sure she was a hell of a woman."

"We related to him?" William asked. "This Grigory Orlov guy?"

"Our father always believed we were, but he was never able to prove the link. Orlov is a reasonably common family name, so probably not."

"Shame. Todd at number twenty-two's always banging on about how he's related to some English baron. Pretty sure a Russian count would be even better."

"Todd is the man who owns the Audi dealership, yes?"

"That's him."

Kirill gave his best 'fuck it' shrug. "Tell the story anyway. It doesn't matter if there is no truth behind it. A count always outranks a baron, and Todd won't know any better."

"I ever tell you I really like the way you think?"

"That is hardly surprising, _brat_. Identical twins have almost identical brainwave patterns, so you and I literally think the same way."

William grinned and turned back to the haul. "What's next?" he asked.

Kirill patted a small, round, plastic container that looked like an empty margarine tub. "This should probably go to Tom as well," he said.

William picked the container up and held it in against his stomach as he peeled the lid away.

It was full of gold. Or gold coins, to be more precise. Maybe twenty of them in all, each one sealed in a plastic slip.

Still using one hand to hold the tub against his body, William picked a coin from the top, examined it, then flipped it over. "These are Krugerrands, right?" he asked, admiring the colour and the antelope graving.

Kirill nodded. "Twenty-two carat, one troy ounce of gold in each. Whatever the fuck a troy ounce is."

"Any idea what an ounce of gold's trading at right now?"

"I made a point of checking the numbers this morning. It closed in Chicago last night at just over seventeen-hundred dollars per ounce."

"And you must have, what, twenty ounces in here?"

"Eighteen," Kirill corrected.

William did the sums in head. "So that's another thirty grand in value right there."

"What is our decision, then? Keep them, or give them to Tom with the cash and the stones?"

William dropped the coin he was holding back into the plastic tub. He knew what his answer should be, but for some reason, he was finding it rather hard to say it. "They _are_ very pretty," he murmured instead.

"You are a CIA Section Chief, Viko, not a magpie," was Kirill's disapproving response.

The older twin ignored the complaint. "How about we split them three ways? Keep six each, give the other six to the station?"

"I am good with that if you are, but wouldn't it be slightly dishonest?"

"More than slightly, but it's not like Tom'll know any better."

"And what he doesn't know won't harm him _or_ keep him awake at night."

"Exactly," William said. "And I'm thinking they'd make a nice gift for the kids. Give them three each when they turn eighteen."

He picked six Krugerrands out of the tub and laid them on top of the bag of stones. He stuck another six in his pockets, resealed the tub and handed it back to his twin. "Those are yours."

Kirill seemed slightly reluctant to take it from him. "If you are going to give your coins to the children, you can have my share of the haul as well. Give them six each instead of three."

William's eyebrows shot up. "That's very generous, but wouldn't you rather keep your six for when you have some kids of your own?"

"I am not going to have kids of my own," Kirill declared in a voice of steel.

"You sure about that?" William asked. "You don't wanna check with Catherine first?"

Kirill gave him another glare. "Yes, I am, and no, I do not."

The way he said it made it clear the topic wasn't open for further discussion.

William took the unsubtle hint, set the tub down and gestured to another item—a large, square, leather-clad case marked with the Hublot logo. "So what's in there?" he asked.

Kirill picked the case up and cracked it open, showing him what was nestled inside.

William let out an appreciative whistle. "Now, _that_ is a very nice watch."

"It is yours if you want it," the Russian said, holding the box out to him.

"You don't like it?"

"It is far too elaborate for my tastes. I like my watches simple and clean."

"I guess that means you didn't buy it?"

Kirill shook his head. "It was a gift from the wife of a client. Her way of thanking me for a job well done."

"How'd the client thank you?"

'With fifty-thousand in brand-new, unmarked dollar bills."

"I'm sure she meant well."

"I told her I liked the Classic Fusion, but she thought it was far too basic, insisted on buying me this one instead."

"What's this one worth?" William asked, thinking it had to be something involving five figures.

"I don't know. The Classic Fusion sells for five to ten thousand, depending on the finish and model. Knowing the predilections of the woman in question, this one probably cost ten times as much."

William peered at the face. "Did you know the mechanism has a Ferrari symbol on it?"

"Yes," Kirill sourly said. "As if the design wasn't quite gaudy enough."

"I guess that means you don't wanna take it home with you?"

"Not really, no."

"You could make another visit to that jeweller on the Rue du Rhone, see if he'd be willing to buy it from you."

"Or I could throw it into the lake."

William snorted. "Or you could throw it into the lake. Be a hell of a waste, though. And you wouldn't want a local _gendarme_ to catch you doing it. Pretty sure throwing away an expensive Swiss watch while you're actually _on_ Swiss soil is a very serious crime."

"The Swiss have no right to tell anyone what is or is not a crime," Kirill muttered darkly. "The national motto might be 'One For All, All For One', but it should really be 'Profits First, Principles Later'."

William winced, pressed the box shut and placed it at the left end of the counter, next to the passports he wanted to keep. "Let's hold onto the watch for now. We can figure out what to do with it later."

Kirill picked up the last of the items he'd removed from the bag—a long, slender, cherry-stained box with a grooved, slide-top lid. He held it out and firmly said, "We are _definitely_ keeping this, so add it to the pile on the left."

William took the container from him and gently slid the cover back, revealing a silk and straw-packed bottle of Château Margaux Grand Vin. He squinted to make out the year. 1982, the faded, white and olive-green label said. Never mind a very nice watch—this was a _beautiful_ bottle of wine. "Any idea what this is worth?" he asked.

"Don't know and don't care," Kirill replied. "We are keeping it, but we are not taking it back to the States, so the value is of no concern."

"What the fuck are we doing with it if we're not taking it back to the States?"

Kirill gave him a quizzical stare. "We are going to _drink_ it, Viko. Probably tonight, either with or after dinner."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. It has spent enough time hidden away in the dark. It is time to enjoy it the way it was meant to be enjoyed."

"You're gonna make my wife a _very_ happy woman. She loves her reds, especially the good ones from France. I'll take a glass as well, but it'll probably be wasted on me. I'm more of a beer guy."

"You will like this one, Viko, I promise. I have only tried it once before, at a government function in the Kremlin Palace, but Château Margaux is as good as red wine gets."

William slid the lid into place and carefully placed the box down at the 'keep' end of the counter.

He gestured at the storage unit. "That lot's done, what's up next?"

Kirill returned to the cabinet, briefly rummaged around again then re-appeared with a single item—a sturdy, plywood packing case measuring approximately three feet by two.

William didn't need to ask what it was—there was only one thing it could be. "I'm guessing this is the stolen painting."

"It is, yes." Kirill laid the crate on the counter. "I can open it up if you would like to see it."

William waved the offer away. "I know even less about art than I do about wine, and you told me it was an inferior work, so don't waste your time. Plus, if you open it up, we'll just have to put the damn thing back together again."

Kirill made to slide the crate across to the right, then frowned, sighed and took it to the other side of the room where he propped it up against the wall.

"Why the hell are you putting it there?" William asked.

"Because it does not belong on either side of the counter. We are not taking it back to the hotel with us, and we are not dropping it off for Tom to deal with, either."

"What the fuck _are_ we doing with it, then?"

Kirill ignored his question, but took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and wrapped it over the top of the crate. "This note describes everything I can remember about the man I stole it from. I am going to leave the painting here for the Safeport staff to deal with. They will ensure it is returned to the rightful owner."

"Why don't you want to take it to Tom?"

"Because I am concerned it will raise too many difficult questions. Turning up with a case full of cash and a bag of uncut diamonds is bad enough, turning up with stolen art is an even more troubling matter. Especially as art is far more traceable than cash or gems. I would rather Tom did not know the theft was something I had a hand in."

"We could take it to a courier place, have them deliver it to the British Embassy in Bern."

Kirill shook his head. "They would have security cameras in the courier office, and I would probably have to show them ID. If the Safeport deals with it, whoever they hand it over to will know better than to ask where the painting came from."

"Fair enough," William said. "Go get the next thing."

This time, Kirill's haul was a small leather trunk, scuffed and worn around the edges, secured by two sturdy, buckled, wraparound straps. It looked like something out of a Harry Potter movie—the kind of thing one of the pupils would carry onto the Hogwarts Express.

Kirill dropped it onto the counter and gently laid his hand on the top. "This is what we _really_ came for."

"This is all the family stuff?"

"This is all the family stuff."

As William made to undo one of the straps, Kirill's hand shot out and gently grabbed him around the wrist.

"But we are not going to open it here. I don't want to go through the contents until I am sitting somewhere comfortable with a glass of wine in my hand. And neither do you, Viko. Trust me on this."

"As long as there's nothing in the trunk you don't want either of the girls to see. It was hard enough to arrange having an afternoon to ourselves. Not sure I could talk Mike into letting us have an evening on our own as well."

Kirill slid the trunk along to the left. "I don't mind if the girls are with us when we open it up. They _are_ family, so it seems only fair."

William tried to hide his surprise. Mike was his wife, so she definitely counted as family, but Catherine was a different matter. She and Kirill had now been dating for almost a year. Was that a verbal slip on his brother's part? Was his relationship with Kate about to become something better defined?

Not that William would ever be stupid enough to ask his brother that question out loud. When it came to emotions and feelings, Kirill was very easily spooked. He might have made a verbal slip, but if anyone confronted him with it, he would go into full-on, denial mode and backpedal at high speed.

William took a moment to go over what they'd dealt with so far. "So we have cash to Tom, two passports to Tom, three passports to us, diamonds to Tom, coins divided equally between us, watch to us, wine to us, the painting stays and the trunk to us."

Kirill nodded and stuck his hands in his pockets.

"But we obviously have one more thing to retrieve," William prompted. "Cus when you asked me not to judge you too harshly, I don't think you were talking about how ugly you look in your passport photos or the fact you buy your tea at Harrods."

The Russian let out a sigh. "No, I was not."

He disappeared in behind the cabinet door again. Something clanged, Kirill let out a quiet grunt, then re-appeared holding an item that made the older brother's blood run absolutely, _totally_ cold.

It was a five foot long, one foot wide, matte black, injection moulded, HPX resin case with two double-layered, soft-grip handles and six Press & Pull latches.

Something of that size and shape usually had one of two uses—transporting musical instruments or some kind of sniper weapon. And William already knew that Kirill, like him, didn't have a musical bone in his body.

When William finally spoke, it was in a barely audible voice. "Jesus, Kir, is that what I think it is?"

"Yes," was all Kirill said.

He manoeuvered the case up onto the counter, opened the latches one by one, flipped up the lid and stepped away.

"Mamma mia," William said. Nestled in a series of spaces moulded into the dark grey foam were the disassembled components of a semi-automatic weapon. "This is a Dragunov, right?" he asked, reaching out to lightly stroke the barrel cover. "Always wanted to give one a try. Which model is this?"

Kirill leaned over to tap his fingers on a night scope. "This one is an SVDN. We did a lot of our work at night."

"We?"

"My Spetsnaz team."

"You were their Designated Marksman, then?"

"We were a special operations unit, so I was cross-trained in several roles, but yes, whenever we put boots on the ground, my primary role was sharpshooting and squad support."

"You ever use this out in the field?"

"In Dagestan and Chechnya, yes. And in numerous other, how should I say, _less official_ engagements?"

"How the hell'd you even manage to keep it? A nice piece of equipment like this, surely the Army should've asked for it back?"

Kirill shrugged. "They never asked, I never offered. Plus, as much as it looks like a standard-issue weapon, it has actually been customized in several ways to work more effectively with my shooting style. Somebody else could easily use it, but they would find the modifications annoying and ask for an unaltered weapon instead."

"Why'd you bring it here?"

"Because I had used it too much. It's characteristics were showing up on too many police reports. I needed to hide it away for a while, but somewhere I knew it would never be found."

"If it was too hot to use, why didn't you just destroy it?" William asked. "Take it apart and throw all of the pieces away?"

Kirill fell silent for a few moments, a smile playing across his lips. "Why do you still have your Hawk?" he eventually asked in return. "You said yourself you don't intend to ever ride it again, so why is it still sitting out in the shed?"

William huffed. "You leave the Hawk alone. That bike was the first big-ticket item I ever bought. The two of us have been through some tough times together."

"Believe it or not, Viko, but it is the same for me and this gun. For almost ten years, it and my St. Christopher's pendant were literally the _only_ constants in my life. Wars ended, assignments changed, CO's moved on, colleagues died, resigned or transferred out, but this?" he paused to give the rifle a pat. "This was _always_ with me."

"I understand," William said as supportively as he could, "but if you think about what you just said, you'd realize that's why you have to throw it away."

Kirill gave him a pained look, but made no attempt to speak.

"Kir, this rifle was the only constant in your life, but the life you're talking about ended two years ago in that tunnel in Moscow. You have a new life now. A better one, full of more comforting things than a gun. You keep telling me you're trying to be a better person, and I believe you, but if you keep this, you're basically saying you're not ready to stop being the man you used to be." He softened his tone again. "This rifle isn't who you are, _bratishka_. Not anymore. So please, for my sake if not your own, give it up and let it go."

"If you feel so strongly about me giving up items from my past, why did you take some of the coins and the money?"

"That's totally different," William protested.

But in his heart, he knew it wasn't—in their own way, the coins and money were just as immoral.

Kirill knew he was lying as well. "You are so full of shit," he muttered. He gestured at the pile of goods. "Viko, where do you think all of this other stuff came from? Do you think I found the uncut diamonds and coins lying by the side of the road? Do you think the woman who bought me the watch was thanking me for painting her house or trimming her ornamental lawn?"

"I know they were payments, Kir. I get that. You don't have to spell it out."

Kirill slapped a hand on the counter. "Payments for _murdering people_ ," he pointed out. "Men and women, young and old, innocent and guilty alike. Efficiently and reliably, with a minimum of fuss and noise. And more often than not, using that gun."

He jammed his hands back into his pockets; William pretended not to notice the hands were clenched into fists.

"You don't want me to keep the gun because it is an instrument of assassination," Kirill went on in a calmer voice. "But in their own way, these other items are just as bad." His tone turned harder again. " _I volki syty_ _, i ovtsy tsely_ , as our babushka Maria used to say. You cannot sate the wolves and keep the sheep safe, or if you prefer the American version, we cannot have our cake and eat it. So either we give everything up, or we take everything home. There is no acceptable middle ground."

William narrowed his eyes at his twin. "I ever tell you I really hate it when you're right?"

"Yes, but that is okay, because you also like the way I think."

Sighing and glaring again, the older brother reached into his jacket pockets. He pulled out the coins and the bundles of cash and added them to the pile on the right. "Happy now?" he snarkily asked, but there was no malice in his tone.

"Not really, no," Kirill replied as he did the same with his half of the haul. "But as any Russian person will tell you, life is not always about being happy." He slid the watch along the bench, but made no move to surrender the wine.

"Isn't that going to Tom as well?" William asked, nodding at the cherry container.

Kirill shook his head. "There was no murder involved in this, only a minor amount of corruption. The restaurant owner who gave it to me was absolutely delighted with the help he received in return."

"You think it's morally safe to keep?"

"I do, yes."

William could live with that. "So Tom doesn't get the wine, but he gets everything else, including the gun."

Kirill nodded and took a deep breath. "Including the gun," he repeated. Gently, almost reverentially, as if he was handling precious jewels, he closed and relocked the case. Then he added, "But I have one other request."

William tensed, not liking the sound of where this was going. "What's that?"

"When you give the rifle to Tom, please ask him _not_ to run a ballistics test."

The tension receded. "You don't want him to find out where the rifle's been used."

"If he tests it, and submits the results to Interpol for analysis, it will likely come back with numerous matches."

"And that's a can of worms you'd rather not open."

"It is a can of worms _you_ should not want to open, either. And not just out of worry for me."

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it, Viko. If Tom runs a ballistics check, and Interpol finds a match to a weapon that has been used in several unsolved assassinations, what is likely to happen then?"

William saw where his brother was going. "The Interpol guys'll be all over Tom like a rash. They'll want to know where he got the gun."

"And because it is a Dragunov, it would not take long for the FSB to hear about it. They will do some digging in turn, trace the weapon back to me through my Army records, and wonder why it has resurfaced when I am supposed to be dead."

"McNamara's pretty sure the FSB knows you're still alive. She says they don't seem very concerned."

"They don't seem very concerned because they don't know who I am working for. Once they go poking around, they will quickly find out that Tom is the Company man in Geneva."

"And then they'll figure out you're working with or for the CIA," William concluded.

"That would be extremely dangerous, Viko. For _all_ of us, including Andrew and Tatiana."

William sighed and rubbed his face. The last thing he wanted to do was stir up the FSB pot, give the other organization a reason to come looking for him or his brother.

Perhaps they needed a simpler and less risky solution.

"Would you feel better if I took care of the rifle instead?" he proposed. "Left Tom and the Company out of the process altogether?"

"As long as you deal with it properly, yes."

William grinned. "You remember how well I destroyed the Rocket Launch Pad Space Lego set our grandparents sent us for Christmas in seventy-nine?"

"Of course I do. You got so angry smashing it up I thought you were going to shit in your pants. It will take more than brain damage from a car crash to make me forget a moment like _that_."

"I'll do the same thing to the rifle, give it the William Cooper special. Including the bite marks, if you want."

"Don't hold back on my account, but don't bite it so hard you break off a tooth," Kirill whimsically warned. "The Company has a good benefits plan, but dental work hurts like hell and still costs an arm and a leg."

Still grinning, William looked at his watch. They'd been in the room for thirty minutes, so had plenty of time to finish what they'd come here to do before their appointment ran out. "That's everything?" he asked, gesturing at the storage cupboard. "Nothing's fallen down the side or slipped between a pair of shelves?"

Kirill didn't bother to look. "That's everything," he simply repeated.

"Okay, then. Let's pack this all up and take it out to the car."

William opened the metal case, threw in the four bundles of bills and spread the Krugerrands over the top. The case complained about the additions, but with some pushing, eventually closed. "Put the watch, the wine and the passports back in the Harrods bag. If you handle that and the leather trunk, I'll carry the Dragunov and the cash."

Ever the obedient soldier, Kirill followed his brother's orders.

Two minutes later, the haul was packed and ready to go.

William gestured at the painting, still leaning forlornly against the wall. "Last chance to change your mind. Sure you don't want to take it with you?"

"Absolutely," Kirill confirmed, grabbing the memento-filled trunk by the handle attached to the front. "It can be the Safeport's problem from here." He smirked slightly. "They probably have the contact number for every stolen art expert west of Vienna programmed into their office phones. I think they will do a much better job of returning it to the rightful owner than any embassy person in Bern."

William couldn't argue with that. "Do we need to tell anyone we're leaving?"

"There is no official sign-out procedure, but we need to hand these in at the desk," Kirill said, pointing to the visitor cards clipped onto their jacket pockets. "The receptionist will no doubt inform the man in the suit who signed me in that we have finished using the room."

"You gonna tell them you're not coming back?"

"If I was feeling polite, I would. But I am not, and they would not refund the unused portion of the fees even if I did, so I think I will leave them to figure it out for themselves."

William couldn't help but smile. "You _really_ don't like these people, do you?"

"You try booking a hotel room or restaurant table in Zermatt or Verbier when _you_ speak with a Russian accent, and you will soon learn not to like them as well."

In the hallway, murmuring voices passed the door—the owners of another unit, come to tend to another haul.

"We all done here?" William asked, picking up his share of the hoard. "You ready to put all this behind you and say farewell to the Safeport for good?"

Kirill slowly scanned the room. "Yes, we are," he eventually said. "And yes, I absolutely am."


End file.
